


The Most Dangerous Game

by newisalwaysbetter



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: (slash undercover), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass Lucy Preston, Begging, Captivity, Drugging, Electrocution, F/M, Flynn is a hunted target to train new Rittenhouse agents, Flynn is a sad puppy, Happy Ending, Humiliation, Hurt Garcia Flynn, Lucy is a Rittenhouse recruit, Lucy will protect him, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Recovery, Rescue, Starvation, Whump, flynnwhump, mild bad language, oops this is a multichapter now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newisalwaysbetter/pseuds/newisalwaysbetter
Summary: Rittenhouse agents are trained in many things, including pursuit of a live target. From what little time he spends awake and indoors, Flynn has gleaned that he is something of a prized quarry, and that the the right to pursue him serves as an honor bestowed upon promising candidates.Set in a canon AU I’ve been playing with, wherein Flynn’s attempt to steal the Lifeboat is unsuccessful, resulting in his capture by Rittenhouse. In the process, the journal comes into their possession, and upon realizing Lucy could be one of their greatest enemies, Rittenhouse attempts to recruit and indoctrinate her. (Thankfully it doesn’t go as well as they’d hope.)(Canon AU garcy whump/comfort fic, written after a request for some "badass Lucy rescues Flynn," in which Lucy gets a Big Gun, Flynn becomes emotional over camo pants, and there’s pain and comfort in equal measure. Originally a oneshot, now a fully structured multichapter!)





	1. The Most Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a short, nonessential prequel here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710356/chapters/44772805

Flynn’s collar has two settings: sedation and electrocution.

It’s the first that wakes him, with a burning jolt to the electrodes at his neck. “Up, mutt,” someone orders from above him. “Time for your run.”

Although his head is spinning from the drugs, Flynn drags himself out of the little cage as quickly as his cramped muscles will allow; besides the sedative still flooding his veins, he’d resisted capture yesterday, and as punishment, his Rittenhouse captors had withheld his daily meal. Flynn trembles as he crawls, with hunger, with exhaustion, with pain.

Despite his best efforts, he’s not moving fast enough for their liking, and Flynn receives another shock in his neck. He’s too weak to fight off the cry that breaks free.

“You’d better shake a leg today, mutt.”

The compound where he’s kept stands at the edge of a woody swamp, thick with sawgrass and buzzing mosquitoes. At the beginning, Flynn had paid closer attention, trying to determine his location–Georgia? Florida?–but he’s long since given up on looking that far ahead. It’s enough to believe that there is, somewhere, a boundary to his enclosure. He hasn’t found it yet, but every day he gets a little closer.

Flynn races into the trees as fast as his shaky legs will carry him. He growls through the branches whipping at his bare skin. He isn’t allowed clothing beyond a raggedy pair of shorts: he doesn’t deserve it, he’s been told, besides which it would just rub up against the bars of his cage and give him sores. He’s got to be fighting fit to be useful, after all. That’s the only reason they keep him around.

Rittenhouse agents are trained in many things, including pursuit of a live target. From what little time he spends awake and indoors, Flynn has gleaned that he is something of a prized quarry, and that the the right to pursue him serves as an honor bestowed upon promising candidates. He’s been told his fate is a lucky one. There are others used for worse things.

Flynn knows that ten minutes’ run into the swamp, there’s a pool with thick, dark mud. It’s slimy and freezing when he slathers it over his skin, but it will also hide his pale body, and possibly win him a few more seconds of freedom.

He never knows how much of a head start he’ll get. More than once they’ve caught him right here, smearing mud across himself, and dropped him with a tranquilizer and a laugh. Other days, he gets a little further before he’s caught.

(But he is caught, always. That’s his purpose. And no matter how far he gets, the collar at his throat ensures that he can always be sedated, or, more likely, shocked hard enough send him jerking to his knees.)

Today, however, the undergrowth is silent as he drags his shivering body from the mud. They’ve given him a few minutes, it seems, for which Flynn is pathetically grateful. Being shocked while he’s in the pool hurts more than anything, the electricity carrying through the water to rip through his every muscle.

He leans against a tree to gasp, running a hand through his wet hair. The mud is colder today. Although Flynn rarely thinks in words now, the seasons have noticeably changed over the months of his captivity, and he realizes distantly that Rittenhouse has had him for over a year. The thought registers without distress, only a dull acceptance.

There are voices in the brush behind him. Drawing a shuddering breath, Flynn sprints into the trees. They like him to run.

Over the past year, he’s tried everything to evade them. Flynn has dragged his heavy body up trees, half-drowned himself hiding in rivers, even refused to leave his cage. (He’d been taught in short order that there were ways to hurt him that still left him able to run the next day. And he  _is_  expected to run, even if he twists his ankle, as he had in the first month; even if he’s feverish and ill, as he’d learned in the second; even if punishment has left him concussed, dizzy, or starving, as he’d learned in the third, fourth, and fifth. It was around this time that he’d lost track of the months.)

Flynn is talked to while he’s punished, so he knows exactly what he’s done wrong. They only want to help him be good, help him be useful. He wants to live, doesn’t he? Originally Flynn had hissed words at defiance at them, but soon enough a thorough shocking had fried his brain into obedient silence.

At this point he isn’t sure he does want to live.

The only thing he’s sure of is that he wants to run.

At times like these, when sensation is drawn from his aching limbs into his body, Flynn’s consciousness contracts as well. He’s fed and run once a day, with the effect that his body has contracted into bone and lean muscle. He’d seen himself in the mirror once, during punishment, and the fear he in his eyes had scared him. He looks like a starved thing.

No, thinking is only painful; better not to question, better only to run.  _You_  are _a dog, just like they said_ , a little voice whispers, and it’s entirely possible that it’s true, so Flynn doesn’t bother dismissing it as his numb legs carry him deeper and deeper into the swamp.

He doesn’t notice he’s exhausted until his legs literally give out beneath him, sending him tumbling to the earth. Growling, Flynn tries to struggle to his feet, but his legs flop uselessly, limp as rubber.

Then he hears something moving in the trees behind him.

It could be mere wildlife, but Flynn still tastes panic, sharp and metallic, in his throat. Seeing him like this, they’ll think he’s being disobedient, they won’t believe he’s unable to stand–

With the last of his strength, Flynn drags himself forward, and between the branches of a bush. It’s terrible camouflage, but he’ll be punished less if it looks like he’s made an effort.

Footsteps crunch over the cold earth behind him. Flynn braces for the shock, for the drug to flood his veins, but there’s nothing. He waits.

After another minute passes safely, he wonders if they’ve somehow missed him, and looks back, over his shoulder.

A pale, dark-haired woman stands a few yards away, watching him.

She’s Rittenhouse; Flynn knows better than to hope for anything else, if her camouflage uniform didn’t already certify her as such. Flynn’s gaze catches on the remote to his collar strapped to her belt. His pursuer, then.

The woman is neither tall nor muscular, and back when he’d considered himself a man Flynn might have tried to overpower her, and run. But none of that matters when she is well-fed, well-rested, undoubtedly trained in the vicious ways of Rittenhouse, and most importantly, armed and carrying the controls to his collar. If he could get to his feet, Flynn might have the advantage of height, but he’s also starved, drugged, half-naked, and weak.

He shrinks at her approach, but there’s nowhere to go.

When she kneels before him, it’s unexpected, but not extraordinary. Some of them like to watch him suffer, like to look into his eyes while he’s hurt.

There’s something different about this one, however. Those dark eyes are bright and interested, which makes him want to hide.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” It’s the softest thing he’s ever heard. She must see him shudder, because the next thing he hears is: “You don’t have to be afraid of me. I lost the guards for a moment,” she continues briskly, “but they’ll be right behind.” Her voice is urgent. “Can you stand?”

It’s not the first time he’s been given an impossible order. Flynn clings to the bush, trying to drag himself upright.

He hears the men’s voices seconds before the woman curses and tackles him bodily into the bush.

“Don’t move,” she hisses into his ear. Flynn peers over her shoulder and out of the bush to see two men emerge into the clearing beyond. They’re Rittenhouse guards, to judge by their uniforms and the semiautomatics slung across their chests.

“Miss Preston?” One of the guards yells. Flynn presumes that’s the name of the woman currently half-straddling him, her body wrapped around him in a strange, all-covering hug. They call her name a few more times, giving a cursory search of the clearing, and more than once their eyes sweep over Flynn’s hiding place.

She’s hidden him, he realizes suddenly. The mud still reveals all too much of his naked body, but this Miss Preston has thrown herself over him without hesitation, using her camouflaged body to hide his bare one. He doesn’t understand, but then he’s long ago given up trying to puzzle out the thousand cruelties of Rittenhouse, and learned to accept kindness when he can.

The guards are muttering to each other. “Cahill’s going to be pissed if he hears we’ve lost her.”

“How was I supposed to know someone so small’d run so fast?”

“You ask me, they should give us controls for the mutt’s collar too.”

Flynn trembles–with fury or horror, he’s not sure. The woman’s arms tighten around his neck, and one small hand squeezes his shoulder. “ _You’re all right,_ ” she murmurs into his nape. “It’s all right.”

By the time the guards have gone, Flynn is weeping softly into her shoulder.

He tries not to cling as she pulls away, but it’s just been so long since he was touched enough.

“I think they’ve moved on. We should be safe for a little bit.” The woman glances back into the clearing. Some wisps of dark hair have come out out her tight coiffure, and Flynn realizes he’s staring. That’s not allowed. Flynn looks down.

A hand cups his face, as warm as summer sun. He trembles, with fear, and with the effort of holding still.

“It’s all right,” she breathes, “you can look at me.”

Flynn doesn’t dare.

His cheek is cold as her hand leaves it, and Flynn squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the shock.

Instead he hears, “What’s your name?”

A thousand well-trained responses rise to his lips immediately– _beast, dog, mutt_ –but although he’s still not entirely certain her enthusiasm isn’t directed towards hurting him, the coaxing gentleness there gives him pause.

She hasn’t yet hit him for looking at her, either.

Still, he murmurs the words quietly enough that he can deny them if asked. “ _Garcia Flynn._ ”

She reaches for his neck, and Flynn flinches away as much as his obedience will allow him. He’s learned all too well that using that name means he gets hurt.

She swallows, hand pulling back. But then she says, hesitantly, “Garcia,” and it’s a cheap shot but it lights up his insides in a way he had almost forgotten. “My name’s Lucy Preston. I’m going to help you get out.”

That doesn’t seem right. “You’re Rittenhouse,” he whispers. His voice creaks with disuse.

“I’m not,” she’s insisting, when suddenly the undergrowth rustles behind her and the two guards reemerge into the clearing.

Lucy turns to look. Flynn braces to run.

“Miss Preston, you’re going to have to–” That’s all they get out, because Lucy suddenly drops to one knee, draws her pistol in one fluid motion, and fires  _one, two_  flawless shots into each head.

“You’re Rittenhouse,” Flynn says again, as the bodies crumple to the ground. He means it as a reminder, but it comes out like a question.

“I was  _trained_  by Rittenhouse,” Lucy clarifies as she approaches the bodies, gun in hand. One of them twitches, and she kicks the semiautomatic off his chest to put a bullet in his heart. “What I  _am_  is a historian.” She strips the other body of its fatigues with cool efficiency and returns to Flynn with them slung over one arm. Her jaw is tense as she lays them out in front of him. “And also someone who can’t bear to see another human being treated this way.”

Flynn stares at the clothes, uncomprehending. None of this makes sense. He’s waiting for an order when Lucy gets to her feet, swallowing hard. “I’ll. Um. Give you some privacy.” And even though it’s not a word he’s heard in a year,  _privacy_  unlocks a door in his brain.

_I’ll give you some privacy (to change)._

_Oh._

Flynn looks up at her for confirmation, but Lucy is already back to the bodies, studiously scavenging for supplies. He takes a risk and grabs the shirt.  She hasn’t hit him yet.

By the time Lucy returns, with a utility belt in hand and a semiautomatic strapped across her back, Flynn is running his hands over his clothed body. It’s the first time he’s been allowed clothes in a year, and he had forgotten how it felt to be covered, to feel the warmth of his own body around him. It feels like being human again.

Lucy doesn’t seem to notice. “That’s a good look for you,” she says, and Flynn feels with a sick twisting that familiar glow of pride, of having followed an order well.

“Thank you,” he says on instinct, eyes dropping to the ground.

“I wish I could have gotten them to you sooner.” Lucy sighs in frustration. Her hand rises to smooth his lapel, and Flynn resists the urge to flinch away when it lingers. She touches easily and carelessly, this one. “No one deserves to be treated like that.” She looks into his eyes and says, “ _You_  didn’t deserve that, Garcia.”

Flynn doesn’t know what to say.

“Do you know how to put this on?” She offers him the utility belt. Although his hands are still shaking, Flynn manages to clip it around his waist. The  _click_  of the buckle sounds like old memories coming back. Flynn doesn’t smile, but he thinks about it.

“Good. That’s good.” She’s smiling, but she also looks like she might cry, and Flynn just stares at her until she wipes her eyes and says, “Do you remember how to use a gun? I heard you were a soldier.”

 _Yes,_  whisper distant memories, and Flynn nods.

“Here.” There are three pistols stuffed into the waistband of her fatigues, and Lucy retrieves one and hands it to him. To Flynn’s delight, muscle memory takes over when he checks the cartridge. His belt has an empty holster, and he realizes belatedly where Lucy’s extra guns must have come from.

“Wow,” Lucy murmurs as Flynn holsters it. He looks up to find her shaking her head. “I heard about you–about how you fought, and…” There’s wonder in her voice. “You’re–you’re just like they said.”

“Thanks for that,” Flynn mutters, surprising himself. He’s not used to speaking out loud, but something about this woman makes him want to dare.

“Not like that.” Lucy laughs a bit, her face brightening. “You’re just…such an inspiration.”

Flynn eyes her uncertainly.

“Rittenhouse tried to make me one of them.” Her expression darkens, and she shakes her head. “But they couldn’t break me; just like they couldn’t break you. I’d been planning to get out on my own, but when I saw how you were treated–” she breaks off on a huff, her eyes iron. “I  _swore_  I’d get you out of there.” Lucy takes a deep breath, drawing herself up to her full height. Despite the fact that that’s not considerable, Flynn believes her. He’d believe anything from this woman, really. “I know a safe place, if you’re willing to come with me.”

 _Willing._  Flynn wants to laugh.

When he doesn’t say anything, Lucy swallows and reaches up to his neck. “Right, I should’ve done this sooner. Lean down?”

Flynn’s stomach turns over. There’s a manual dial on his shock collar.

Trembling, he lowers his head so that she can reach it.

He’s bracing, teeth clenched in anticipation, when the collar tightens momentarily and then falls away. “There,” Lucy breathes.

When Flynn looks up, he’s panting harder than expected, and his eyes are wet. Lucy holds out the collar and remote to him. “You don’t have to come with me,” she says, and for a moment, Flynn really glimpses her, frantic behind the mask. “But there is a place for you there, if you want it. And this time…” Emotion overtakes her, and Lucy thrusts the collar into his hands. Hers linger, squeezing tight, for a long moment. “This time you’ll have a choice.”

Flynn looks from her open face, to her hands and his together around the collar, to the men lying dead behind her, and his lip trembles, and he doesn’t care if it’s a trap.

The only thing he can think to do is to sink to his knees before her, head bowed, clasping her hands to the crown of his head. “Thank you,” he whispers, again and again. “You’re too kind, thank you,  _thank you._ ” He’s crying freely now, gasping hot breaths around the words.

“Garcia, no. Please.” At the sound of his name, Flynn’s head flies up. He’s dismayed to see Lucy’s eyes sparking with tears. “Don’t say that. Don’t thank me.”

Going silent, Flynn presses his lips to her hand. He doesn’t speak, determined to follow her orders, but he mouths against her knuckles,  _thank you. Thank you._

Lucy tugs on his hands. “Please stand up, Garcia, you don’t have to–” He rises to his feet in a second, enfolding her warm hands in his cold ones. Lucy’s nails dig into his palm, and when she speaks, there’s hesitation there. “I don’t want you coming with me–” his dismay must show on his face, because she takes a step closer. “Unless it’s what  _you_  want, Garcia.”

 _Want._  Flynn could sob with frustration. He’s forgotten how to want anything; there’s only  _need_ , sharp as hunger, that he doesn’t know how to express. Instead, he squeezes her hand hard, fixes her with his eyes, and prays she’ll understand.

It takes a long moment. Flynn watches the understanding come over her like sunrise. “Okay,” she whispers, and nods, just barely. “Okay.”

Then they hear the dogs.

Fear flashes across Lucy’s face, sudden and vulnerable, and Flynn sees red. He leads her to the edge of the clearing. It’s still hard to force himself to speak, but he manages to get out, “Can you run?”

Lucy’s eyes hold the suggestion of a smile. “Try me.”

When they run, Flynn is careful not to lose her, and Lucy doesn’t let go of his hand. By the time he’s boosting her over the fence, he’s warmed through, and the trembling has subsided in the light of his new purpose.

He may not be a human anymore, Flynn thinks. But at least he can save one.


	2. The Fear of Pain and the Fear of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, friends!
> 
> The Most Dangerous Game is now a fully planned story arc, heading towards a happy ending with recovery, but with plenty of Pain along the way. Tags will update, and I'll warn here as well, but generally speaking there will be no sex or graphic violence contained here.
> 
> In chapter two, Flynn and Lucy make it home to the others, and Flynn continues trying to adjust.
> 
> Also, lord...this is already so much longer than I'd expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings for this chapter as the previous: dehumanization, implications of torture, food issues including starvation, mild injury, blood mention, unkindness to the traumatized, mentions of drugging, mentions of canonical death, and incomplete/inaccurate depiction of PTSD.

She makes him run until he staggers.

Flynn’s mind goes quiet in these times, so he fails to notice the ache in his bones or the tears on his face right up until the moment his trembling legs give out, sending him crashing to the ground. Lucy has seemed distracted since they’ve been running, and Flynn hears her go a few more steps before slowing to a stop.

He must not be left behind. As Flynn struggles onto his knees, his deadened nerves awaken in full force, and pain explodes from the heels of his hands. When he turns them over for examination, they’re bleeding from the force of the fall. For a moment, he’s mesmerized by the sight of his own blood.

Flynn forgets things, sometimes. It could be because of the exhaustion and starvation, or because of the drugs he’s dosed with every night, or simply because, as Rittenhouse has told him, he’s a useless, stupid mutt.

Therefore, it’s only when he hears the approaching crunch of Lucy’s boots on the gravel road that he realizes with horror that he should be trying to stand.

But from his first attempt, however, he knows something is wrong. His body isn’t working right. The joints won’t lock to allow him to stand, and he falls to his knees before her, again and again. Lucy might be saying something, but he doesn’t hear it. He flinches, a moment before he remembers that he’s not wearing his shock collar any more. Because Lucy took it off. Because Lucy is kind, and good, and can only put up with his uselessness so long before she decides he’s not worth the trouble of keeping around.

A hand reaches towards him, and Flynn braces for the punishing hit he knows is coming.

When Rittenhouse had shocked him awake in his cage that morning, the expectations had been clear.  _You want to eat? You want to sleep? You want to live? Then you’ll take what you’re given, and do as you’re told._

_Mutt._

“Garcia.”

But when Lucy cups his chin and tilts him up to examine him, Flynn remembers, suddenly and wonderfully, that his new keeper is different.

“Do you want to take a rest?”

Flynn’s chest tightens. Rittenhouse had rarely allowed him to talk, except during punishment. He knows this question. He knows the answer.

Every limb feels like it might fall off, and his head is drifting dizzily, but Flynn manages to force out the words. “No, Lucy.”

He wouldn’t dare to want things from her. His wants are inconvenient, make him disobedient and bothersome. He lives at his keeper’s pleasure; Rittenhouse had made that more than clear.

With a grunt, Flynn braces his wounded hands against the ground, and struggles to stand.

“You look like you’re hurting yourself.” Lucy sounds distressed. He’s distressed her? Flynn flinches again when her hands cup his face. “Just–just stay down, all right? God, your hands…”

“You want me to rest,” Flynn repeats, his voice breaking. He lifts the weight of his head a few trembling inches out of Lucy’s hands; he hasn’t been given the order…

“You’re shaking like a leaf; of course I want you to rest!”

Lucy’s voice is sharp with worry, but he’s too busy going liquid. The ground comes up beneath him, and Flynn hardly notices the gravel pressing into his face as he drags himself into a protective ball. Lucy is good. Lucy is kind.

Above, there’s the crackle of a handheld radio, and Lucy says, “Agent? Come in.”

Through the haze of exhaustion, Flynn’s ears prick up. Agent–of what?

“Yes, I’m– _we’re_  in the wind.” A silent moment. “I’ll explain when I see you. No, nothing like that. I just need that pickup sooner than we thought. Yes, I’ll send along the coordinates. As soon as you can. Over and out.”

For perhaps the first time since his capture, Flynn finds himself looking forward to being punished. He’d worked to be good for Rittenhouse for the sake of staying alive; he’ll work to be good for Lucy just to please her.

His keeper is pacing circles around him, and wandering up and down the forest-lined country road. Flynn tenses whenever her footsteps approach him, but the expected blow never comes. Soon enough he’s trembling. This is its own kind of punishment. Why won’t she give him what he deserves?

Perhaps there’s an order he’s forgotten.

The thought goes through him like lightning. Flynn glances up, catching Lucy’s eye. _Of course._  Rittenhouse would have hit him quickly for being disobedient, but Lucy is slow to punish. This whole time, she’s been waiting for him.

With energy born of fear, Flynn attempts to prop himself up on one arm.

Lucy has gone back to watching the horizon.  _Look at me,_  Flynn implores in his heart.  _I can obey. I can be useful._

Then his injured hand scrapes on a stone, and a hiss of pain escapes him.

Lucy’s gaze snaps to him, and she says sharply, “What are you doing?”

Flynn freezes. For a moment they stare each other down in silence. Then, cowering, he lowers himself back to the dirt.

Lucy’s footsteps  _thud_  towards him. Flynn covers his head with his hands.

“You don’t have to do that.” Her voice is tense. It’s an effort to drag his hands away, to leave his head exposed for her.

“I said I don’t want to hurt you. You remember?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Flynn nods into his knees. He hadn’t. He had forgotten. The thought, even as he cringes on the earth, is achingly wonderful

“It looks like it hurts to get up.”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“Then you don’t have to try. All right?”

There’s a long silence, after that. He wishes she would just give him an order he can try to obey.

Lucy’s warm hand comes to rest on his head; Flynn flinches out from under it.

She moves away, after that.

Flynn’s eyes and throat burn, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s weeping without tears. He’s exhausted, but he’s not been given permission to sleep. If Lucy doesn’t punish him so he can earn the reward soon, he might die here.

 _No._  The thought surfaces with abrupt clarity. He has to remain alive, or what has the last year been worth? He  _must_ stay alive, in order to save…someone.

 _A bright ring flashing on a familiar hand. Small footsteps pattering towards him._ Two names…

He  _needs_  to stay alive, but he can’t remember  _why._

But the heartbreak slips from his mind like water as a black van pulls up beside them. Lucy is calling his name, and there’s a faceless agent in the front seat, and the thought of saving his two girls from Rittenhouse is quickly dismissed in favor of protecting his current one.

Several things pass in the span of seconds. Flynn rises; spots the agent stepping from the van and reaching for their gun; sweeps Lucy into his aching arms, and drags her offroad into the forest.

She’s clawing at his shirt and hissing his name, but Flynn can hardly listen, not when there’s a gunshot cracking over his shoulder and a thousand dark fears clouding his mind.  _Lucy, glassy-eyed, a sedation collar buckled around her neck. Lucy, screaming as the electrodes light up her flesh. Lucy, stuffed into a cage…_

“Garcia,  _stop._ ”

He obeys so quickly that he crashes to the ground on top of her.

“Hold still,” Lucy hisses against his collarbone. Flynn doesn’t hear. He’s wild-eyed with panic, and still trying to drag them both away.

With effort, Lucy manages to slip out from beneath him and scramble away; Flynn struggles to his knees and reaches lamely after her. “What’s gotten into you?”

Her voice is sharp, and Flynn flinches even as he’s grateful. That tone of voice means punishment. It means she cares.

He remembers, abruptly, the agent. “It’s not safe.” He paws at her, a moment before he recalls himself. “We need to run, Lucy, you need to–”

Had she turned and fled at that moment, leaving him there, Flynn would have understood. Besides the panicked burst he’d used to first seize her, he hardly has the energy to stand.

Instead, she takes a labored breath, and runs a hand through her hair. “Garcia, we’re  _safe._ ” The world spins around him, and Flynn clings to her voice, which slips from his grasp like silk. “That’s the car I called for. They’re here to pick us up.”

He hasn’t felt hope in so long that it hurts.  _Us?_  After all he’s done…

“Do you think you can get to the van by yourself?”

Flynn could cry with relief. After all he’s done. And it’s not an order, but it’s the closest thing he’s gotten in hours.

“Yes, Lucy,” he rasps, and follows her back through the forest, half on his knees.

She climbs into the back of the van before him, and for a moment Flynn hesitates. With all he’s failed since she took him, this would be the perfect moment to enact his punishment. Rittenhouse would have left him to walk beside the road.

That voice is unbearably gentle as it asks, “Get into the van? Please?”

But, Flynn’s reminded as he clambers eagerly into the backseat, Lucy is not Rittenhouse.

He shuts the door behind him, and as the van pulls away, he kneels obediently on the floor. This much is simple. He can be silent and not take up much room until Lucy has a use for him.

“Please, Garcia, no.” He’s careful not to look up when she speaks. “Come sit up here, with me.” Flynn dares a glance and sees her patting the seat.

His breath catches. It’s more than he deserves. Is this a trick?

A flash of something crosses Lucy’s face. Exhausted as he is, Flynn doesn’t register it as concern; he’s too busy climbing onto the seat beside her, folding his hands in his lap, making himself smaller. He can never be small enough.

As the hours roll by and Lucy stares silently out the window, Flynn waits to be given permission to rest.

The sun sinks low on the horizon, casting a black blanket over over the rolling countryside beyond. Flynn watches all this out of the corner of his eye; the majority of his attention is dedicated to studying his hands, folded obediently in his lap. Focusing upon them keeps him from falling asleep when he hasn’t been given permission to do so.

He’s been nodding, and his head jerks up as Lucy glances at him again. Maybe he’s forgotten an order again. Maybe she’s checking that he can stay awake. Maybe she’s deciding how he can be made better. In any case, Flynn flinches with every glance. It’s not good to attract his keeper’s attraction; it often means he’s going to be hurt.

The car slows to a stop. Flynn sees only darkness outside, and his heart drops.

It takes him a moment to realize Lucy is touching his arm. “It’s time to get out now.”

He’s being left, then.

Flynn sinks to the floor of the car. Spots swim in front of his eyes. With shaking hands, he unlocks the door and draws it open.

He can hear Lucy moving behind him as he half-creeps, half-tumbles out of the van onto the gravel of the road. He’s only grateful that she hadn’t kicked him out with her boot. Lucy is merciful.

Then her feet hit the ground beside him. Flynn looks up dizzily. “Wh…”

No, no, he corrects himself, as her gaze flies to him. Questions aren’t allowed, even with Lucy.

“Did you have a question?”

Flynn ducks his head, shaking it. He didn’t say anything. He can be quiet.

As if on cue, a box of light falls over his face. Flynn squints at the lit windows hovering above of him. House?

“Welcome home,” Lucy says. Her hand trails over his shoulder, and then she starts up the path.

 _Home._ The word awakens long-buried memories in him, elusive and precious as gossamer.  _Steam rising from a warm cup. A band-aid over a scraped knee. Linked hands…_

“So, you want to tell me what I’m looking at?”

That voice brooks no disagreement. Flynn instinctively shudders away from the human silhouettes emerging from the open door. This is his home of the last year. This part he understands.

Someone is walking down the path towards them, their sensible shoes clicking on the driveway. Hissing, Flynn drags his aching body behind Lucy’s ankles.

“Agent Christopher.” Lucy shakes hands with the petite, gruff-voiced woman parked before them. Flynn’s heart sinks. “You got us out.”

“Two hours before schedule, no thanks to you and…” Christopher puts her hands on her hips. “Whoever  _this_ is.”

Without looking, Flynn can tell when he’s being referred to.

“His name is  _Garcia Flynn._  We escaped Rittenhouse together.” Lucy crosses her arms. “He’s staying with me.”

“Absolutely not; are you out of your mind?”

“I could ask you the same thing. He needs our help.”

“He could also be a spy, or a sleeper, or slow us down if we need to run. Lucy, I have enough trouble with Olivia bringing home strays without you doing it too.”

The details of his new home are sharply familiar. Flynn hangs his head.  _A stray._

“Garcia isn’t any of those things,” Lucy snaps, and for once Flynn is grateful for the hardness in her voice. “I’ve been watching him for months. I wouldn’t have brought him if he wasn’t safe.”

Christopher responds with a doubtful silence.

“You really don’t trust me to have done my research?”

Flynn hardly hears any of this. He’s thinking about finding a safe place to sleep–under a tree, maybe, if he can get that far before passing out. He’s trying to think how he’ll live once they get rid of him.

Meaning it takes him a moment to catch it when Christopher says, “I’m trusting you.”

Lucy’s open hand slips behind her back. On his knees, Flynn nuzzles into the warmth of her palm.

They want to keep him. Lucy wants to keep him. He can hardly believe it.

“I’ll take responsibility for him.”

“Damn straight. And he sleeps in the barn.”

“You’re kidding. You don’t know what he–”

“And I don’t care. My kids are in that house, Lucy, and I know nothing about this man.”

Lucy huffs, and turns to look back at him. “Come on,” she says softly, “let me help you stand up.” This time, Flynn remembers not to flinch when her hands fall on him, and with her help, he manages a kind of dizzy equilibrium. “I’m so sorry.” Lucy shakes her head in that  _this isn’t right_  kind of way. “You’ll only be out there for a few days, I promise.”

Flynn frowns in confusion, before he remembers to nod. Of course. Animals  _belong_  in the barn.

Then someone crows, “ _Lucy!_ ” and a stranger barrels out of the the lit farmhouse.

Flynn tugs urgently on on Lucy’s hand.  _Get behind me._  But Lucy steps away from him, crying, “ _Amy!_ ” and catches the sprinting figure full-on in her arms. They sway for a moment, clinging to each other.

When they break apart, the newcomer slips past Lucy and skips towards Flynn. He drops his gaze to the ground, but she ducks low to look up into his face, and Flynn finds himself staring down a blond young woman with a witty smile. She is, he notices, somewhat younger, somewhat taller, and somewhat visibly similar to Lucy. “Hey, stranger.”

“His name is Garcia.” Flynn relaxes when Lucy returns to his side. “He escaped with me, and he’ll be…staying with us, for a while.”

“And you’ve been keeping an eye on my sister, huh.” Amy looks him up and down, and Flynn shudders. It’s like she’s looking for a place to hurt. “Okay, I see it.”

” _A_ -my.”

“What?” Amy returns, in a gleeful whisper. “He’s  _pretty._ ”

She likes him. He’s pretty. Flynn draws a shuddering breath. He can stay pretty, so that Amy will want to keep him just like Lucy does.

More voices call Lucy’s name, and more people filter out of the house. Flynn looks up, his nostrils flaring.

“It’s all right. Stand down.” Lucy strokes his arm and whispers the words into his shoulder. “These are my friends, all right?”

 _Friends?_  Flynn frowns with nervous hope. If they’re friends of Lucy, perhaps they’ll be as kind to him as she is.

“Lucy, hey, thank god.” A grinning man in Death Star-patterned pajamas jogs down the walk towards them. “Gotta say, I am  _so_  relieved that you didn’t get, like, assimilated, or replaced with a–a pod person, or, y’know, shot–”

“Sorry,” a young woman says dryly from beside him. “He’s been chugging coffee all night.”

“Because I was worried!”

“Rufus; Jiya.” Laughing, Lucy steps away from Flynn to embrace the rambling, grinning man, and to wrap the young woman up in one sisterly arm. “This is–”

Flynn knows the exact moment when Rufus catches sight of him over Lucy’s shoulder, because he sputters, “Holy  _fuck,_ ” and stumbles back, dragging Jiya behind him.

“We know who he is,” Jiya says coldly. “Why would you bring him here?”

Not friends, then. Flynn’s excitement wilts as he stares at them in confusion.

“You two know Garcia? How?” Lucy puts a hand on his chest and looks between them. Her gaze asks for answers, but Flynn’s mind is a stew of lost memory. They know him? They’re afraid of him?

“Yeah, it’s kind of hard to forget the guy who broke into your workplace and pointed a gun down your nose.”

Flynn wipes a trembling hand over his mouth. He’s threatened Lucy’s friends. He pointed a gun at them. And he doesn’t even remember, if Lucy decides to ask.

Instead, she steps in front of him. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, you can’t be talking about Garcia here.” Amy adjusts the collar of his camo suit, and only frowns slightly when he flinches. “He’s a sweetie, right?”

“ _I_  remember.” Jiya crosses her arms. “And Connor would, too.”

In the face of their open aggression, Flynn does the only thing he can think of to ease their fear, and drops to his knees. He wants to apologize–even as he knows it won’t be enough–but no one’s given him permission to speak.

There’s a long moment of silence. Jiya whispers, “ _What?_ ”

Lucy rests a warm hand on Flynn’s shoulder. Her voice is far too soft, and far too steady. “Whoever he was then, he…isn’t, any more.”

Under her hand, Flynn studies the floor. No more need be said.

“Okay, but I’m not letting him go all Manchurian Candidate on us. He is  _not_  staying in the house,” Rufus spits. “Not with me and Jiya there, let alone with Agent Christopher’s kids.”

Lucy’s hand tightens on his shoulder. There’s an almost undetectable quaver in her voice. “No. He’ll be sleeping in the barn.” On his knees, Flynn nods jerkily, like a puppet. “And he’ll be my responsibility.”

“He’d better be,” Christopher says.

Lucy’s gripping his shoulder so hard that it hurts. Flynn clings to that pain, leans into it, even as nausea and determination in his stomach. He can do this. He can be good for Lucy, and pretty for Amy, and convince Rufus and Jiya that he’s well-trained and not frightening, and he can avoid Agent Christopher’s children. He can do anything, so long as Lucy lets him stay with her.

“Fine,” Lucy says at last, “Whatever. But I need to bring Garcia inside, just for a little while. He’s hurt, and he needs to eat.”

For a moment, Flynn feels the tension in the air, as he studies the walk beneath his feet. It will take work to convince them.

Rufus claps Agent Christopher on the shoulder. “Jiya and I can go upstairs. Hang out with Michelle and the kids.”

Christopher watches Rufus and Jiya walk back up to the house, dragging a protesting Amy along with them. Then she turns back and declares, “He’s not coming inside like that.”

“Don’t you see that he’s not going to hurt anyone?”

“Tell that to the hardwood floors we spent yesterday washing after Mark’s shoes got done with them. This one’s filthy.”

Looking down at his muddy uniform, Flynn grits his teeth in a flash of shame. Amy had said he was pretty… “Just take him out back to the garden and hose him off first, all right?”

 _Take him to the garden and hose him off._  Flynn’s hands tighten on his knees as the memories wash over him like a flood.

Rittenhouse had hardly cared about his hygiene, except– _Get out, mutt. The boss is here, and it’s time you were shown off._  The last time had been months ago, but he can still feel–the click of manacles around his wrists. The thunder of the pressure hose. The agony.

(With Lucy, at least, he will try to stand upright during the cleaning. She won’t have to chain him.)

 _Crawl, mutt. Get dirty, and we’ll hose you again._  The boots of the Rittenhouse bosses, waiting. Exploding agony.  _What did I do wrong? Nothing, mutt. We just like hearing you scream._

The garden had been the worst.

“Garcia…Garcia.” Lucy is shaking his shoulder, and Flynn resurfaces with a jerk. He’s been staring blankly at the ground, trying to ignore the sensations rushing over him like water. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yes, Lucy.” It comes out feeble and small. With his old keepers, that would have been the end of it. But with her, he feels the need to fix this. “S-sorry. ‘M…sorry, Lucy.”

“You don’t have to apologize; it happens.” She strokes his arm. “Where did you go?”

Flynn opens his mouth, but no words come out. His lip trembles, and with a choking sound, he buries his face in his hands.

Lucy’s fingertips ghost over his filth-encrusted hair. “None of what happened to you there,” she promises in a whisper, “is going to happen to you here.”

It’s a nice thought, at the very least.

“Garcia, can you stand by yourself?”

He bites his lip, and shakes his head against her palm.

“Okay; let me help you.”

There it is again, that warm gratitude and surprise.

Christopher stands by with her arms folded, watching them work their way up to standing. Flynn ends up with an arm over Lucy’s shoulders, and both her hands around his waist. He’s feeling faint and trying not to put too much weight on Lucy’s slim frame, but he still can’t help but lean into the touch.

He catches Christopher watching him with distrust, and ducks his head. “Just keep him on a short leash,” she mutters, and starts back up towards the house.

“She didn’t mean that,” Lucy assures him, as they limp together through the darkness of the yard. Flynn nods obediently, even though he doesn’t believe it. She’d been serious about everything else.

The hose lies coiled beside the house like a snake. It’s an ordinary garden hose, not as strong as the industrial one Rittenhouse had used on him, and Flynn takes comfort in that.

All the same, Lucy must feel the shudder that rumbles through him, because she follows his gaze and swallows hard.

“I’m going to have to let go of you for a moment.”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“So I can open the back door.”

_No._

Lucy can’t leave him here–outside, to wash himself alone in the darkness. Under other circumstances he might have tried to do as she expects, but tonight his eyes are burning from tears and exhaustion. If she leaves him, he’ll end up unconscious on the back steps.

“No, Lucy,” he whispers, barely loud enough to hear.

“What?” Her open gaze flies to him. He doesn’t recognize the softness in those brown eyes.

He’s so scared to speak, he’s trembling. But he must. He’ll take the punishment, just to keep her near him. “Don’t…leave me. Please.”

“Of course not. You’re staying with me from now on.”

“No…no.” His head sinks from exhaustion. “Now. I can’t…wash myself.” Weak. Useless. “Stay with me. I won’t ask for anything else. Please.”

There’s a long, ominous moment of silence. Flynn lifts his gaze, finally, to find Lucy staring at him, openmouthed.

“You really think I’d make you wash with the hose? Like an animal?”

“Y-yes. Lucy.” Why is she surprised?

She’s speechless, for a moment. Then she breathes heavily, and helps him turn so that he’s leaning up against the house.

Here it comes.

At this point, he’s learned not to flinch when she cups his face.

“Garcia Flynn,” she says, softly, certainly.

“Yes, Lucy.”

“You’re a  _person;_  do you understand me? You’re–you’re a human, whatever Rittenhouse told you, and you deserve to be treated just as well as me, or Rufus, or Amy.” Flynn glances down, a tear tracking down his cheek. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. “And I know you’re going to forget sometimes.” Her voice quickens, and in the moonlight Flynn catches sight of the tears slipping down her face. “Because of what they told you, but. I promise you, Garcia, I will remind you every day, as long as you’re with me, that–that you can talk when you want to, and stand when you want to, and you can trust me to keep you safe.” Her thumb brushes over his lip. “Tell me, if you understand.”

Flynn nods. He’s shaking–not with fear, for the first time in months, but with the shock of relief. It’s not true, but hearing Lucy say it, he could almost believe it.

“Just try to be quiet when we’re sneaking in–and take off your shoes, okay?”

This kindness might kill him. But Lucy is good. Lucy is kind. Lucy is different.

Maybe things will be different here, too.


End file.
